COMFREY, WYOMING: Marcela's Army

By Daphne Birkmyer

If little Marcela Crow had not been born to a body identical to her twin brother's...

Would a young potter, who as a child lost her family to a house fire, have found the strength to parent her own child? Would a metallurgist have managed to forgive himself for betraying his brother, and fall in love again? Would a talented, he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Oct 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781639885664

Book preview

Part One:

SOLDIERS

CHAPTER ONE

HOUSE ON FIRE: COMFREY 1983

The crisp autumn air provided the oxygen, the old wooden house provided the fuel, and an extension cord, run over by a vacuum cleaner earlier in the day, provided the spark. It had been nine minutes since a neighbor made the call, four minutes since Armand Dubois gave up trying to start the ladder truck’s engine. By the time the tanker trucks arrived and men leapt off to uncoil hoses and start the water pumps, tongues of flame licked the eaves and angry snaps and crackles peppered the sky with silver sparks and red embers. Larger, softer, black papery things swooped and fluttered in the thermals, catching in trees, dissolving into powder as they landed on the clothing of those who watched from across the street. Smoke roiled in waves up the pitched roof and spiraled in loose grey funnels into a cloudy leaden sky that withheld its rain.

Built almost a century ago, the houses on Franklin Street followed a similar plan. Between the sitting room on the right and the dining room on the left, a staircase led from a small square entranceway to three bedrooms on the second floor. As they watched in horror and fascination, neighbors envisioned the flames devouring their own homes, the fabric of their own lives. Those from a few blocks over gave thanks their houses were made of brick.

The fire arched and twirled with the passion of a flamenco dancer, its orange and red skirts consuming the furniture, catching the new curtains. It advanced to press against the glass, shattering the dining room windows, sucking in a great gulp of oxygen before belching a bolus of fire onto the narrow front porch, then retreating momentarily to tear upstairs and mock the crowd from the front bedroom window.

Wyatt Beauclaire, the only member of the Comfrey Volunteer Fire Brigade to draw a modest salary, and thus the de facto captain, had been taking a nap with his baby daughter when his pager went off. Her teething was wearing on the both of them.

He took the stairs three at a time, burst through the front door, and leapt over the boxwood hedge, yelling over his shoulder to his father, Fire on Franklin. Half a can of formula in the fridge. No more Tylenol ’til six.

The elder Beauclaire stopped raking leaves and walked out into the street. As he watched his son disappear into the station house half a block down, he sniffed the air and scanned the sky. Smoke gathered seven blocks over, no fire hydrants in that old neighborhood. He had been a fire fighter; he knew two tanker trucks, a small water tender, and eight thousand gallons of water wouldn’t be enough to put out a wooden house fire. Save people, protect neighboring homes—that would be the best they could do.

His granddaughter bellowed from inside the house and he allowed himself a proud grin since there was no one around to see it. Little one had a good set of lungs. He’d go inside, change her, fix her a bottle, and resist the temptation to take her over to watch the blaze. It wouldn’t hurt her none, but his son wouldn’t like it, so he’d just put her on his back in that baby carrier and she could grab at his hair with her chubby little fists as he finished his raking.

The Dubois brothers on hoses, four hundred gallons per minute, four men around the back holding a tarp as a net. Without the ladder truck, they hadn’t a hope of reaching the man desperately trying to open the back bedroom window or the woman at his side with a baby in her arms.

"Break it, the firemen yelled up to the man. Break it."

A shoe. Why didn’t he use a shoe, an elbow, a fist? They looked at each other in confusion—he was taking too long. It was glass, just glass, didn’t he know he was out of time?

The man held up a hand, as if asking them to wait, and disappeared. Presuming he’d turned away to grab something to break the window, they readied their net, but he must have opened the door to the hall for suddenly a brilliant flash of light filled the room and one of the firemen let out a long, anguished, "Noooo…"

The woman, a black silhouette against the flame, shouted something down to the men below and bowed her head, then for a moment, just a moment, she held her baby up high, before they both slid from view.

The men looked at each other, aghast. What had this woman been thinking? That if she raised her baby up high enough, she could save it?

The lashing and roaring of the fire drowned out the gentle hum of the water pumps and the shouts of the men behind the house. When the crowd saw the fire captain walk toward them, they paused from looking amongst themselves for members of the new family that had just moved in. They gathered close. Folk approved of Captain Wyatt Beauclaire, short, compact, tough like his father, calm, confident, an easy manner just like his dad. They’d share what they could; the family had been there less than a week. Related to Betty Ann Wolfe, they thought, the parents were called Rick and Jess, and true McNabbs, no doubt—the father and girl had the hair.

A girl? asked Wyatt. A baby? No, they assured him, a girl of seven or eight, no one could recall her name.

Ruth Creeley visited them yesterday, she’ll know about the girl, they called as Wyatt tore back across the street to alert his men that they also needed to recover a young girl.

After the second floor collapsed onto the first and the roof gave way, part of the back wall fell out. Wyatt released a weary breath and removed a glove to draw a sweaty hand over his face. He’d call it, they’d give up on the McNabbs, pull the plug, cut their loses, accept the deaths. With an abrupt and violent shake of his head, he directed the Dubois brothers to use the rest of the water to hose down the roofs of the houses on either side.

The death of a family. Wyatt felt his stomach seize and clenched his jaws against the bile that rose in his throat. He shut his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger tight against his lids, trying to erase the image of Jess McNabb holding that baby up.

Baptism by fire, Jesus Christ, he whispered under his breath. "Baptism by fucking fire," he repeated, knowing the idiom didn’t really fit but unable to let it go.

When it was safe, the men in their vulcanized rubber-soled boots tromped through the blackened ruin, crunching over glass, avoiding galvanized pipes that connected to nothing. Their eyes watered from the acrid odor of wet ash as they skirted the contents of the upstairs bedroom, now lying on the kitchen tiles. Water, grey with soot, seeped from a ceiling fragment onto the charred bodies of two adults and a baby. Tyree and Armand Dubois used fire hooks to lift debris enough to shine their flashlights underneath, looking for the body of a seven- or eight-year-old girl.

When Tyree thought he heard crying from the basement, he and Armand walked around the foundation, calling Honey? and Little girl? They lay on their bellies, shone their flashlights into a black cavern, and hoped one of them wouldn’t have to crawl inside if a child called back. Wyatt, dubious a living child could be found in the basement, held a slim hope she might have escaped, and she’d be hiding. If she were alive, she’d be hiding.

Leaving others to coil hoses and check for hotspots, Wyatt went to search the freestanding garage at the end of the driveway. He played his flashlight over the interior of a dusty old Buick that smelled of mildew and mice, and peered into a barrel that lay on its side. The floor at the back of the garage had been swept clean, and collapsed moving boxes, with ‘kitchen’ or ‘upstairs’ written on their sides, had been propped against a wall. He lifted a canvas sheet to find a potter’s wheel, a kiln, and neatly stacked bags of clay. He climbed a narrow set of stairs to the loft. He called for her. Nothing.

Would the ladder truck have made a difference? When a cat needed rescuing the previous day, the ladder truck had started readily enough. They’d all known the battery didn’t hold a charge as well as it should. He had asked the town council for funds for a new battery, a few hundred bucks, and they said to wait until next month. He should have demanded, refused to back down, but the truck had started yesterday, with the barest hesitation. Had it been the barest hesitation?

Wyatt emerged from the garage and stood a moment to watch the storm clouds, rimmed pink and gold by the setting sun, scud away, conserving their water for elsewhere in the Green River Basin. As he climbed the slope toward a decrepit shed that stood under a magnificent October Glory Maple near the property line, he staggered to the side to avoid stepping on a small creature. A pine squirrel lay on its side, panting, quivering. A hint of russet and grey remained in a solitary tuft of hair on its tail but a good portion of its skin had burned, exposing dark red muscle underneath. The squirrel fixed him with a round black eye, curled its tiny fists tight, and resumed its frantic gasps.

Wyatt unhooked a small, short-handled axe from his belt. It was a multipurpose tool, designed for giving access through locked doors and hollow walls, equally handy for chopping the head off a small rodent. He dug a shallow grave near the base of the tree and carefully arranged the head back on the neck before covering the carcass with dirt and leaves.

He stood, re-hooked the axe to his belt, and instinctively ducked his head at the sound of an object dropping through the branches. It bounced off the shed’s roof and, lying before him, was a child’s canvas shoe. It had landed almost on top of the little grave. He shone his flashlight into the foliage above, and there she was, crouching on a branch a good forty feet up. He stepped back for a better view—she had one hand braced on the trunk, the other grasping a branch. A pale face peered down at him without expression. Wyatt looked from the face to the house and realized with a chill that the October Glory Maple would have offered an unobstructed view of the back bedroom window.

So you think she’s in that big old tree, the one that’s leaves are turnin’ red? asked Tyree Dubois, craning his neck to look up at Wyatt. He’d thought he heard the whimpering again, but Armand, who couldn’t hear worth a damn, said it was just the building shifting.

"I know she’s there. I saw her and she doesn’t want to come down, said Wyatt. Fact is, when I called to her, she climbed higher."

Well, what’s the sense in that? asked Tyree, stumbling awkwardly to his feet and reaching a hand down to his brother. Why would she climb higher? She think we have a ladder that high? She think we’re gonna be able to climb up and just carry her down?

Wyatt struggled for patience. He had been in school with the Dubois brothers. He knew how Tyree got, innocent as a five-year-old, too eager to make friends, a brain that skipped from one topic to another so you pretty much had to shut him out after a while. Armand was easier, quiet, courageous on and off the football field, even when rumors started to circulate that maybe he liked guys more than girls. But one thing about the Dubois brothers, they always showed up and didn’t leave until it was over.

Well now, Tyree, I reckon that little girl’s scared shitless, said Wyatt. And I don’t know what she’s thinking. She doesn’t have to think right now.

Armand rolled his eyes at Wyatt and gave a nod, that’s right.

But you thinkin’ she maybe watched the whole thing? asked Tyree, his plump face wrinkling in concern. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she’ll be screwed up for life.

The neighbors said Ruth Creeley visited the family yesterday, said Wyatt. I just talked to her, she said the girl’s name is Vera.

Vera? You’re kidding, I had a girlfriend named Vera. Remember her, Armand? Tyree received a slight shoulder shrug from his brother. Sure you do, Tyree insisted. Big girl, he said, cupping his hands as if holding cantaloupes.

Is Ruth Creeley coming? Armand asked Wyatt, ignoring his brother.

Yup. Betty Ann Wolfe’s some kind of relative so Ruth’s picking her up on the way. I’ll go wait in the road. Can you guys …

Tyree interrupted, an edge of panic to his voice, You’re gonna tell me I’m the one gotta climb up there and get this little Vera girl down because I’m the youngest, but I’m too heavy, and Jesus, what if she gets dropped? We can’t drop her, everybody’ll go nuts.

Tyree! Tyree blinked as if he’d been slapped and his brother said, more gently, Ruth will help us get her down.

But what if … Tyree trailed off as his audience walked away, Armand toward the tree in case Vera opted to descend, Wyatt to the road to wait for Ruth and Betty Ann.

CHAPTER TWO

THE OCTOBER GLORY MAPLE

Wyatt had his ears tuned for the rattle of one of Ruth’s old trucks, so the women snuck up on him when they arrived in a respectable-looking late model car, probably belonging to Betty Ann Wolfe.  He was anxious to get Vera down from the tree before the coroner’s van arrived, but he allowed the women a moment to absorb the destruction of the old wooden house before he approached.

Ruth emerged from behind the wheel, her face stricken. My God, Wyatt, she said, her normally authoritative tone tempered with horror and disbelief. Oh my dear, dear God, and I just saw them yesterday. She stared at the ruins a moment before leaning down to talk to her passenger through the open car door. Betty Ann, better if you stay seated here while …

But the old woman interrupted with surprising firmness, You go right ahead, Ruth. Go on and get little Vera down. All I need’s a moment, then I’ll be right on your heels.

Ruth straightened, closed the car door, and beckoned Wyatt to stand next to her. More stubborn than a stone, she hissed. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. This has been such an appalling shock but she insisted on coming. Had a stent put in her heart last week, apparently even pescatarians can block an artery. If you’d just give her a hand, Wyatt, but take a care. Let her set the pace, there’s a good lad.

To be called ‘good lad’ by someone not ten years his senior would have made Wyatt release a chuckle if he’d had one in him. Wiry, tough little Ruth Creeley didn’t look the mothering type, but she had that comfort about her.

Since the house no longer blocked the view of the October Glory Maple, Ruth pointed toward the tree and said in a much louder tone, I’ll go see what I can do to encourage the poor lamb to climb down.

Wyatt watched Ruth take off in short, determined strides before he walked around the car to open the passenger door. Robbed of its usual vitality, the old lady’s face looked scary white and he hoped she wouldn’t see the alarm in his eyes.

Mrs. Wolfe, he said, offering his hand. Over twenty years ago, she had been his fifth-grade teacher—he’d never be able to address her as Betty Ann.

In a voice as thin as paper, she said, You’re sure that baby’s gone too, Wyatt? You found his little body?

Yes, Mrs. Wolfe. We did find his body. I am so sorry.

She worked her mouth the way old people sometimes do, as if chewing on words before offering them up. Wyatt crouched down to hear her more clearly, feeling like he was back in elementary school as he looked up at her.

We were planning a nice visit, they were coming over tomorrow, bringing a salmon salad and rolls, Ricky, Jess, the children. As if not wanting him to think less of her for not making the salmon salad herself, she added, I’m not much up for cooking at the moment.

He remained crouched because she’d put her hand on his shoulder and was attempting to push herself into a standing position. He awkwardly put his hands around her middle and gave an assist. What was he doing? Stuck here with his old teacher, who looked like she’d expire any minute, leaving Ruth and the Dubois brothers to coax Vera down. He looked toward the tree and narrowed his eyes. He could just make out Ruth being given a leg up by Armand.

Mrs. Wolfe. I’m not so sure … Wyatt began as she swayed on her feet, but she righted herself and shot him her teacher look and said in her teacher voice, Wyatt Beauclaire, all I ask is a minute or two to get my bearings. You’re in such a blessed hurry? It seems to me this dreadful business is mostly over.

Wyatt could have easily carried her, but he shuddered to think how that suggestion would go over. They crossed the road haltingly; he tried to match her steps without appearing too obvious. By the time they started along the driveway, they had developed a rhythm of sorts, walking, pausing for breaths, walking.

As they skirted the house, she said she wanted to take a closer look but he said firmly, "No you do not, Mrs. Wolfe. Let’s not make this any harder."

Are their bodies still there, Wyatt? Isn’t someone taking care of their poor bodies?

We’re waiting on the coroner from Pinedale, he said, and for a moment her face crumpled. He didn’t think he’d be able to bear it if she cried, but she surprised him when she tugged at his arm and demanded furiously, "What did the Lord need with that little baby? You ask Him that, Captain Wyatt Beauclaire. You ask him why he had to take that little baby too, because He sure as hell isn’t talking to me."

Armand and Tyree Dubois watched in admiration as Ruth climbed. She stopped a few branches below the child and they could hear her beginning to talk in low, soothing tones, her words indistinguishable from the ground.

Mom couldn’t do that, observed Armand.

You mean the climbing part? Because Mom could do the talking part, said Tyree loyally.

Climbing part. Armand wasn’t sure about the talking part. What could anyone say to a child who had probably seen her family burn?

Yeah, well I remember Wyatt talking on how he helped Ruth re-roof her house a few months ago. Remember that? Said she climbed like a monkey, worked like a dog. Matched him tile for tile, said Tyree. Ruth’s a few years younger than Mom and she has superior upper body strength, Mom’s just regular. Recommendable.

Commendable, too, murmured Armand.

Ruth peered up at the weary little face looking down at her, pale and remote as the moon. Hello, Vera, she called gently. We met yesterday, remember? The chocolate chip cookies? That was me. I’m so very sorry, honey, I truly am. Life can be so cruel and there’s nothing to explain it.

The child gave a slow blink and turned her face away. Ruth sighed and settled her back against the trunk. She watched Wyatt and Betty Ann make slow progress toward them. Smart young man, steering such a wide path around the ruins. From up here you could still make out the shapes lying on the kitchen floor, if you knew what they were.

You see that lady down there, Vera? Ruth called up. The one walking with the fire captain? That’s Betty Ann, my friend and some kind of auntie to you. She didn’t come with me yesterday because she’s recovering from surgery, but she’ll be fine. Vera’s attention shifted momentarily toward the small figures coming their way and Ruth continued, When you decide you can come down, we’ll go to Betty Ann’s house. It’s a nice house, comfy and safe.

Vera changed position, leaning back against the trunk like Ruth. It almost seemed as if the child were settling in, and Ruth felt a stab of alarm. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled somewhere over the little town of Farson, to the south.  The clouds continued their retreat so she and Vera were in no physical danger, but night approached. When the coroner arrived, he’d have to set up lights and the whole scene would be lit up like the final act of a macabre play.

Betty Ann gave Wyatt’s arm a squeeze as they paused once again for her to catch her breath. You’re a sweet boy, Wyatt, always have been. And look at you now, giving up that big job as a fireman in Cheyenne, bringing your baby home to Comfrey when that silly girl up and left you both.

  Wyatt nodded; silly girl just about summed Amy up. When she’d grown bored with motherhood after a few months and left, there had been no question he’d have to return to Comfrey to have his dad’s help in raising little Sophie.

As the wind shifted and the odor of wet charcoal wafted over, Betty Ann looked back at the house.

Do you remember how long that house stood empty? she asked, her hand trembling on Wyatt’s arm. Ricky inherited it few years back from a cousin of my late husband. I’m not sure of the particulars, that side of my husband’s family has always been a bit iffy. When the baby arrived, Ricky and Jess decided they needed a bigger house so they moved down from Montana, where she’s from. Then as soon as they arrive in Comfrey, three of them are gone in a puff of smoke.

Wyatt grimaced. If only they had gone in a puff of smoke. Again he saw the blackened remains of the parents, indistinguishable from each other, the baby fallen away from his mother’s arms, charred except for part of an arm and a tiny pale foot.

Betty Ann agreed not to attempt the sloping path to the maple and stood waiting as Wyatt went to see if there was anything to retrieve from the shed for her to sit on. Her voice reciting the 23rd Psalm followed him, "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters."

Wyatt shook his head ruefully—they couldn’t be further from green pastures and still waters. She should have chosen the prayer of St. Francis, to sow hope where there is despair and light where there is darkness. He muttered under his breath his favorite part of the prayer, "Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; To be understood as to understand; To be loved as to love."

The shed door opened with a creak and Wyatt played his flashlight over a pillow, a crumpled blanket, and a book, The Hidden Staircase. He recognized the girl on the cover, in control, confident in her sweater and pleated skirt, her flashlight trained on something in the shadows. Wyatt’s older sister had read him Nancy Drew books as bedtime stories. He would have had to leave town if his friends had found out he preferred Nancy to the Hardy Boys.

He heard something move, a restless sound. And there, under a shelf holding a box of graham crackers and a bag of dog food, cowered a familiar-looking dog, muscular, medium tall, medium brown, unexceptional except for the degree to which his lower jaw jutted out, hinting of a bulldog ancestry.

It was Porky’s dog all right, but way skinnier than he’d remembered. The dog had disappeared from Comfrey’s streets about the time Porky started spending time with a woman in Big Piney. People didn’t like Porky much, but their dislike did not extend to his dog. Plenty of folks would have taken in the dog, but Porky was rumored to have dumped it somewhere in Wild Horse Valley. Porky was like that—he’d rather destroy something than give it away.

To Wyatt’s, Hey, there, the dog stood, stretched, lowered his head, and wagged his tail.

Wyatt looked around for something to use as a leash. Had Vera been holed up here reading Nancy Drew to the dog when the fire broke out? Had Nancy Drew saved them both?

The moment she spied the dog, Vera descended rapidly. Without saying a word, she sat on the ground, her arms wrapped around the dog’s neck, her face buried in his fur. She still hadn’t decided on a name for him but he was her dog, her very first dog. He had been waiting for her just outside the fence as she explored the backyard the day after they had moved in and he had been so shaky and so thin you could count each rib. Her father said the dog would have to sleep in the shed until they found out if he had house manners.

They fed him scraps the first day, but Vera knew a real dog needed real dog food, so her mother had let her do the vacuuming to earn money for a bag of Purina Dog Chow.

When the coroner’s van arrived, Betty Ann saw the sense in letting Armand Dubois carry her to the car. He cradled her in his arms like a baby and Wyatt walked ahead, playing his flashlight over the ground so they wouldn’t stumble. Ruth held Vera’s hand in a vice-like grip as they marched rapidly past the burned house, Porky’s dog following dutifully behind.

Wyatt bit back a grin when he heard Betty Ann saying to Armand, The Lord has given me this task and He will walk this path with us.

Apparently, the Lord and Betty Ann were friends again.

CHAPTER THREE

PORKY’S DOG

The cat perched on the fence watching Vera, who sat in a garden chair placed within view of the kitchen window so Betty Ann could see her and not worry. The dog lay stretched out in a patch of sun near the linden tree and his feet twitched as he slept. He ran more in his sleep than when he was awake. Betty Ann called him a sedate dog and she said he suited their household perfectly, since the cat provided enough drama for all of them.

A gust of wind buffeted the leaves of the tree and shadows flickered on the ground. Another gust, more violent flickers, and Vera gasped as the shadows erupted into flames that danced around the dog’s body. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t help … her mother and brother at the window, the curtains on fire, the men shouting … the sound of her screams as the second floor crashed down …

Vera bent over and pressed her forehead to her knees. She opened her mouth and her throat ached as it managed to release a long, hollow, emptying moan. Behind the sooty black of her closed eyes, she thought of the pennies her father always had in his pocket, just for her. It was his joke, the joke that made her mother roll her eyes as he handed his pennies over, two by two, when he rendered his opinion.

Which name do you like best? she had asked him as they stacked clay in the garage that would become their pottery studio. She had chosen two names from the glazes they used that were closest in color to the new dog.

Jasper or Phoenix. It’s a big decision, Vera, her father had said, jingling the coins. I’ll render my two cents’ worth after supper.

But the fire had stolen his opinion and now the dog would have to remain Porky’s dog. People called him that anyway.

Lucky for Porky’s dog to have found a home, people said.

Porky’s dog has a little girl to take care of now.

Porky was a nothing, a nobody, so her dog could keep the two words that people called him, but now both would start with capitals: Porky’s Dog. She would write it like that to show Betty Ann sometime. But not now. Now she could do nothing but eat, sit, or lie down. Had the coins in her penny jar melted as the fire flashed at the window and climbed up the curtains? Her mother and brother … Vera pressed her fist to her mouth so hard she tasted blood … the noise of the top floor crashing down …

When Betty Ann called out the window lunch was ready, Vera stood and waited for Porky’s Dog to get up. Soup was on the table, steam rising, rolls, two glasses of water. Vera took what had become her customary seat with its back to the woodstove. At night there would be a fire in the stove, but from her seat, she wouldn’t have to see it.

Betty Ann paused on her way to the table